Pursuit Of The Cygnus Thief

Chapter 35 - Billionth of Near Naught

Chapter 35 - Billionth Of Near Naught

By Roseyone

     I burrowed through the crowded front of the crosstown trolley and found an empty window seat at the very back. All of the signage above indicated that the Metropolitan Trolley Service would come to a permanent halt on June thirtieth. While, the seven car deep traffic jam outside declared the cessation of trolley service ill-advised, progress mandated the change from old to new. Fewer people called the city limits home, instead they’d bedded in the suburban sprawl to the north and west and drove themselves in daily to work. When the metal trolley tracks could be either extricated, or entombed beneath asphalt, those stranded in dwellings within Muncie’s borders would be able count on either anemic bus service, or their feet to get around.

      I’d had no plans to go anywhere in particular, I’d sought out the trolley only so that I could think, kill time, keep moving and avoid getting run over in rush hour traffic. It wasn’t much of a help, but the hot breeze that blew in from the open windows was better than walking in the burn zone between baked concrete sidewalks and late afternoon sun. The throb of the trolley as it accelerated and halted, blurred my senses together, lulled me away from those moments, that seat, then shifted my thoughts backward to Blackwells’ Books and John Woodstock.

      I tried to forget about it, but the memory was too vivid and acidic. John had gloated over his handiwork at Blackwells, he’d wanted that hard boiled girl, and me, to see him do it. Even in the heat of the day, those thoughts of John chilled. I felt that he had orchestrated every step, had framed those girls. I mentally pushed my ego out of the mixture, he hadn’t done it for me at all. Logic still failed to support me. There hadn’t been enough time for John to do whatever it would have taken, yet my feelings on the matter persisted.

     From North Book Row to South, those girls had stalked after me, store after store, obliteration of my peace had been their only goal. The over-sized purses they’d carried supported Johns’ assertion, but surely, I thought, I would have seen their larceny somewhere along the way. Somehow, of all the bookstores in Muncie, John had been at Blackwells’ at the right moment. I felt like an ingrate. John had rescued me from Mr. Abel, he’d kept it secret, given me brotherly advice, and he’d avenged Mary Blodget, while the law had slept. I couldn’t figure it out, nor could I drop it. I needed better answers, words that would loosen my illogical hunch, and let me again see John the way I had before that moment across the street from Blackwells’ Books.

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      With a conspiratorial smile and a vigorous nod, the waiter at Soledad Diner seemed to think that he had discerned Johns’ true intent and counted himself in the know because of it. Johns’ single glass of lemonade would come to the table spiked with a fingers’ worth of spirit because the waiter, named Chuck, according to the embroidery on his uniform, was hip. John put a halt to the misunderstanding, he was sitting alone with a kid, he’d actually wanted only lemonade.

 “Whatd’ya take me for? Eh?”

     Chuck was new at Soledad, I’d never seen him before. The only notable thing about Chuck was his intrusiveness, I was sure that he already knew my father through proximity. He apologized, then Chuck stared down at John and seemed to study every part of his face. ‘One lemonade and one chocolate malted. No juice.’ Chuck paused, his silence cued us to speak, he was curious about something, and he wanted a way in. John only nodded his head. I focused on the gift that John had laid on the table between us a few minutes earlier. It was nearly six o’clock, my father would soon close his garage and join us. We’d gone around twice about Blackwells’ and resolved little, John and I had settle things. Iced out of even minimal conversation, Chuck, who was about Johns’ age, reluctantly returned to his work with his agenda unheard.